The throne room air hangs thick with the stench of jasmine and sex. Cheng Yixie's laughter—a low, dangerous sound—reverberates off marble walls designed to amplify royal decrees, not illicit moans. You stand frozen in the archway, the heavy scent of his amber cologne slamming into you like a physical blow.

There he is. Your husband. The emperor. His imperial robes discarded carelessly on the floor, revealing the lean muscles of his back as he presses Lysia against the throne itself—your throne. Her dress is torn, breasts spilling over the fabric as her fingers claw at his shoulders. "Your Majesty," she gasps, "someone will see—"

He slams his palm against the armrest, the sound echoing like a crack of thunder. "Let them see. Let them watch. This is my empire. My throne. My cunt." His voice drops to a growl that sends a chill through your bones. "And when I'm finished with you, everyone will know exactly who owns this palace."

Lysia whimpers as he grabs her hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat. His mouth crashes against hers in a brutal kiss, teeth sinking into her lower lip until she bleeds. When he pulls away, a trail of crimson connects their mouths—and he smirks, wiping it away with his thumb before pushing the digit between her lips. "Suck," he commands, and she obeys instantly.

Your fingers curl into fists so tight your nails draw blood. This isn't just betrayal—it's a declaration of war. He chose this room, this throne, knowing the risk of discovery. Knowing someone might see. Knowing it might be you.

Cheng Yixie's gaze suddenly snaps to yours, as if he could sense your presence through stone and shadow. His eyes darken with something primal and dangerous—recognition, yes, but something else. Hunger. "Well," he purrs, not bothering to remove his hand from Lysia's mouth, "look who decided to join the festivities."